


how sweet the sound

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:32:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas Eve, and Dean Winchester finds himself at mass with an ex-angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how sweet the sound

"Didn’t take you for the church-going type," Dean says when Cas asks. "What, you kneel in the pews and pray for deliverance? ‘Forgive me Father, for I’ve fucked up?’"

Cas frowns, tips his head slightly. “Faith is faith, Dean. While true that I’ve never experienced it in quite a…human sense, it is essentially the same. And it is Christmas mass, after all.”

Dean chews on his lip and bites off a reply; he tells himself it’s not betrayal that he feels, because that would be childish and ridiculous. Sort of an ‘Et tu, Brute?’ because he’d thought he’d had an ally in the “We Know God’s Probably Real But He’s Also a Dick” fan-club; apparently not.

"Dean," Cas says, much softer, after Dean doesn’t reply, and when Dean meets his eyes, they’re wide, nearly pleading. "Will you go with me or not?"

Dean hates mass. It’s long, boring, stuffy. And pointless, anyway. He’d only gone as a kid every once in a while because Sammy had insisted on it. But still. This is Cas.

"Yeah, whatever, fine." Dean rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "Just give me a minute to dust off the Sunday best."

His Sunday best, much to Cas’ raised eyebrows and Sam’s protesting, “Dean, are you really?” is jeans and a slightly nicer leather jacket than the one he usually wears.

Cas—what the hell—is wearing an actual suit and tie, and when Dean does a double take he smiles self-consciously and drops his eyes to the floor, comments quietly that Jimmy’s suit would’ve at last been appropriate for the event.

(“Where is that old thing, anyway?” Dean had asked, because he’d wondered for a few weeks and had never found the voice to ask. He was kind of afraid of the answer.

"It didn’t have a place in my life anymore," Cas had answered quietly, and Dean had swallowed the reply that the coat hadn’t had a place with his life either but he’d made room in nine different car trunks.)

Sam opts to stay behind, and some small part of Dean wishes he could mourn the death of Sam’s desire to go to church, but he can’t really, because why the fuck would Sam put any stock in God? Why would Dean, why would Cas? It’s not like the Dude had done them any favors. He can’t fault Sam for not going; on the contrary, he feels a prickly, perverse embarrassment all the way to the church for getting roped into this, which Cas questions halfway through the drive.

"Because church is for idiots, Cas," Dean replies, tightening his hands on the wheel. "A bunch of stuck-up bible-thumpers who don’t know jack about heaven, about angels, about  _God._ Why would I want to spend my Christmas Eve in a concentrated area of them?”

"That’s not true." Cas sounds appalled. "Faith is not weakness, Dean. I thought you of all people would understand that."

"I have faith in what I can see," Dean counters. "Touch, smell, whatever. Why the hell would I put any of my money on God when there’s no guarantee He’ll do a damn thing?"

"I rather think," Cas says, "that that’s the whole point of faith." And Dean doesn’t say anything to that, too irritated to reply, perhaps stuck for words because Cas is right, in some ways. He thinks, very hard, of anything but dark, desperate nights in purgatory.

"You really still believe in Him?" he finally asks a few miles later, when St. Cecilia’s looms in sight. "After all the shit you’ve been through?"

"Truthfully?" Cas sighs heavily, like the breath in his chest is weighing on him. "I don’t know. But it seems like the right thing to do on Christmas."

Dean shoots him a half-confused, half-baleful side-eye as he parks the car, and Cas replies with a quick quirk of his mouth, “Jesus was a stand-up guy, either way.”

Dean can’t stifle a grin as he clambers out of the driver’s seat. “I bet you guys threw some huge birthday bashes for him upstairs, huh? You get angel-wasted?”

"It was a joyful time," Cas says in a fond, wistful voice, and when he falls into step beside Dean, his eyes are misted over, watering with the cold. "Although the 25th of December is not Jesus Christ’s true date of birth, we could  _feel_ the euphoria from the earth. So many people, celebrating one miraculous event in concurrence. It was…truly a remarkable thing to witness.”

"Whoa, wait." Dean’s still a bit stuck. "Jesus’ birthday wasn’t December 25?"

A warm hush falls around them as they enter the church, and Dean suddenly feels like all the eyes in the church swivel to him, like they can cut right through his chest to the huge black mark he carries around between his ribs. He smiles awkwardly at some of the people staring his way from the pews, and feels oddly lost, almost paralyzed, until Cas bumps gently into his side.

"Just follow my lead," Cas whispers, arching his eyebrows, and he dips his hand into the basin of water, which Dean mimics. They both cross themselves and Dean follows after Cas with his head ducked. Cas genuflects—Dean doesn’t—and they perch in the back pew and wait in silence for the priest to enter. Cas watches him, and Dean watches a woman mouthing a prayer with a rosary clutched in her fingers to the right of them.

Mass begins quickly after, and Dean almost nods off a few times but forces himself awake for Cas’ sake. Cas seems riveted the whole way through, his head listing slightly as if in contemplation during the homily and singing quietly along to the familiar hymns in a different language, maybe Latin. Dean spends most of the mass observing Cas from the corner of his eye, this strange man who was once a heavenly creature in a Kansas church, bobbing his head softly along to “O Come Emmanuel” at his side. It’s bizarre, really, but Dean has this weird feeling in his chest all the way through, like something liquid and warm is pulsing throughout his body.

The one notable part of the mass for Dean is during the communion; the choir starts up “Amazing Grace,” which Dean knows well enough, but when he turns to exit the pew to line up for bread and wine, he stops short at the sight of Cas’ flushed face, streaked with tears. His head is bowed and his eyes are closed, like he’s trying to reel himself in, but his shoulders are trembling and his hands are clasped knuckle-white on the bench of the pew in front of them.

"Cas?" Dean asks softly and with instant concern, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Cas leans into his touch, as if he’s craving it, or magnetized to it, and nods once before he glances up. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes, even as Dean’s hand moves slowly, of its own accord, to rub a soothing circle on Cas’ shoulder-blades.

"We can leave," Dean whispers. The woman with the rosary is looking at them now.

"No, we should stay," Cas breathes, and sniffles once, loudly. It echoes in the cavern of the chapel, and Dean winces, but no one even glances in their direction. Cas, he supposes, isn’t the first sad, lonely person on Christmas in a church, nor would he be the last.

Cas doesn’t get communion, and neither does Dean. Not that he would really know how to, anyway, but he stays pressed close to Cas’ side, torn in a middle-ground between moved and uncomfortable by Cas’ display of emotion—and at a half-baked performance to “Amazing Grace,” no less.

"Thank you for going with me, Dean," Cas tells him once they leave, and he seems quite eager to forget about the whole crying incident by the time they hit the parking lot. "It…it means a lot, really—"

"Hey, Cas." Dean catches him by the shoulder again and tries not to grimace when he adds, "Listen, if you ever need to, er, talk about anything going on—I mean, I know it’s been tough for you, and I know—"

"Dean," Cas interrupts, not rudely. "Thank you. I know this kind of conversation isn’t your forte—" Dean frowns, slightly insulted. "—so I’ll spare you it. Please forget what happened, I simply lost composure for a moment."

Dean doesn’t say anything for several moments; he shuffles his feet in the thin, graying snow under his boots before he replies, “Cas, it’s okay to be upset about what happened to you. You…you know that, right? It’s not fucking fair and…I get it, trust me. I mean, you don’t have to apologize for being  _sad_ , Jesus.”

"It’s not something I wish to burden you with," Cas says, crooking his eyebrows, and his blue eyes are still slightly bloodshot and his dark hair is rumpled everywhere, tossed by the snow, and for someone who always seemed celestial, untouchable to Dean, he appears…devastatingly approachable.

Dean nods, a little unnerved by the way Cas is gazing at him, like he can still parse out Dean’s soul, and answers, “Yeah, well. Let’s go home, alright? Footie pajamas, eggnog, the whole nine yards on Christmas experience, alright? Sam’s probably already drunk to  _Home Alone_ without us _._ Dude goes nuts when ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’ starts up.”

Cas nods and trails after Dean to the Impala, but when Dean unlocks the car and turns, he finds Cas already gone, twenty feet ahead in the opposite direction, walking quickly and leaving a trail of messy footprints behind him.

“ _Cas!_ " Dean shouts in surprise and takes off after him, not minding to lock the Impala. 

Cas is a quick little fucker, but Dean catches up after a few moments of breathless, out-of-shape jogging and fruitless shouting.

"C-Cas, what are you doing?" Dean asks, falling into fast step beside him, but Cas keeps his head ducked and doesn’t answer. His eyes are watering again. Dean follows him away from the church toward the surrounding patch of woods, half-wondering if he should turn back and let Cas have a few minutes or if he should try to stop him, when Cas suddenly stops and kneels in the snow.

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean says, more out of a true loss for what to do then actual irritation.

Cas twists onto his back and lays his arms out by his side, refusing to look at Dean. He moves his arms and legs in slow, sweeping motions before he stops, his gloved hands curling into the snow.

Dean takes a couple of minutes before he says, incredulously, “Snow angel? Really?”

Cas shrugs; Dean watches the steady, pulsing rise and fall of his chest, the unrelenting stream of his breaths in the distant light from the church, and neither of them say anything for several moments, Cas breathing in large clouds and watching the sky and Dean staring down at him with his hands jammed in his pockets, lost for what to do.

"You can go back to the car," Cas says eventually in a strange, distant voice. "I’ll be back in a couple of minutes."

Dean heaves a long sigh, contemplating, before he lays down next to Cas. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he sticks out his arms on either side of him, making long, neat motions with his arms and legs.

"Haven’t done one of these in years," he muses, feeling Cas’ gaze on his face like it’s a physical thing. "Sammy and I used to do them when we had snow days. Dad would be out for the day, and we’d get to sleep in but we never actually would. Sometimes we’d get the motel-owners to rent out sleds and we’d go wreck all the new snow before any of the other kids could at like, 7:30 in the morning." Dean tilts his chin back and grins at the memory. "Then we’d put our wet socks on the furnace and make soup and hot chocolate." Dean pauses, licks his lower lip. "Sam probably doesn’t remember."

Cas hums quietly in his throat and turns back to look at the sky, his eyes squinted, blinking rapidly against the cold wind. Dean finds himself staring, tracing along the bridge of Cas’ nose, the soft movement of his lips as he mouths the names of constellations.

"You want something to drink?" Dean asks to break the silence, feeling insensitive after saying it, but Cas tilts to glance sideways at him curiously. 

"You brought alcohol to mass?"

Dean fishes into the depths of his jacket, pulls out a flask, and shakes it in Cas’ direction so he can hear the contents swish around. “Never come unprepared, they say.”

Cas holds out a hand wordlessly and takes it, prompting a cautionary, “Whoa,” from Dean when he tips his head back and swallows most of it down with a disgusted grimace.

"Save some for the fish, Cas," Dean protests, and pries it from Cas’ hand before downing what little remains.

"Good stuff," Cas mumbles, closing his eyes and sipping in a soft breath. "Warm."

"Castiel," Dean teases, "you fucking lightweight."

Cas smiles briefly, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “I think I prefer Cas. It has a…” He closes his eyes and frowns. “More human sound to it, I think.”

"All credit to me," Dean says, sweeping his arms more deeply into the snow to make more pronounced wings.

"I’m not…him, anymore," Cas whispers. "Castiel, I mean. Castiel was a warrior of heaven, a soldier, a hammer, pure mission; wrath." He seeks Dean’s eyes out in the dark, questioning, vulnerable. "What am I?"

"Well." Dean struggles to answer because if it’s one thing he’s terrible at, it’s solving other people’s existential crises. "You’re human. Ain’t nothing wrong with that."

"I was an angel once," Cas murmurs. "Before I destroyed heaven."

"It’d make a hell of a TV show."

"Dean."

"Yeah? Sorry."

Cas bobs his head slowly before he sighs and struggles to get up, but Dean leaps up before he gets the chance to.

"Hey, you’ll ruin it if you put your elbows into the ground, here." He holds out his hands, which Cas takes wearily before Dean hauls him up. Dean lets go quickly and nods at the two snow angels printed into the ground. "See?"

Cas stares down at them for several moments, the two distinct shapes in the matted snow, and Dean looks too; there’s something odd and profound in the silence between them, like something is waiting to be said. Then Dean hears a soft huff of laughter beside him.

He turns, confused, and finds Cas grinning faintly, almost incredulously, at the shapes in the snow. “They’re…stupid, really.”

Dean frowns, not following.

"They’re really stupid," Cas repeats. "I mean, just ridiculous. They don’t even look like actual angels." He chuckles more loudly now, his eyes crinkling with mirth, and Dean finds himself smiling too.

"Yeah," Dean agrees with a snort. "Who came up with this fucking idea, anyway? Snow angels."

"Snow angels," Cas repeats, tilting his head back as if to laugh at the stars. "Who would’ve—who would’ve  _fucking_ thought.”

Dean isn’t quite sure why he does it, but there’s an odd pain to Cas’ expression, like he’s laughing through tears, so he steps forward and hugs Cas tight enough to crush the breath out of him. Cas wheezes in surprise, going still before winding his arms around Dean’s back as if to tuck him in closer.

"Dean?" Cas asks after a few moments, quietly against his shoulder. His mouth is warm through the fabric of Dean’s jacket, and Dean tells himself it’s the cold that makes him shiver.

"I’m just." Dean doesn’t have a good explanation. None at all. "I’m just really glad you’re here."

Cas hesitates before his arms lock more tightly around Dean’s shoulders. For a long time, they stay like this, rocking slightly in place, and the stars don’t breathe a word.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Amazing Grace."


End file.
